Spock's first clue that there had been a problem with his transportation from Sardina III was the expression on Engineer Scott's face.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Scott?” Spock asked. He was on the transporter pad as expected, and he felt quite adequate.
“Um … it seems there may have been a wee hiccup with the transporter ...” Mr. Scott said, his eyes wide and his accent broader than usual.
“I noticed no complication with the transporter function.”
“Umm … behind ye.”
Raising an eyebrow, Spock turned to look behind himself, catching an odd flash of white from the corner of his eye. Except, when he turned there was nothing there.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Spock. I dinna know what coulda happened. I've never hearda somat like this happenin'.”
“Something like what?” Spock asked, turning back to face Mr. Scott.
“You've got wings,” Mr. Scott said, his voice filled with awe.
Spock turned again, this time simply rotating his head as far as he could to look behind himself, and spotted not just a glimpse of white but the edge of a feathered limb, which could well be attached to himself. “Perhaps I should visit Dr. McCoy while you review the transport logs for errors.”
“Aye.” Mr. Scott began frantically flipping switches and checking panels.
Walking down the corridor, Spock noted two things. First, there was definitely a change in his balance, forcing him to almost lean forward to keep from falling backwards. In fact, he was not certain how he had missed the difference when he first materialized. Second, the crew was not subtle about their surprise and curiosity about his new condition. The story of his appearance was spreading audibly through the corridors around him.
Everyone politely gave way to his passage, ensuring him plenty of room in the corridors despite the increasing crowd as other crewmen were contacted to “come see.” Spock did not know just how grateful he should have been for this, as inappropriate as the emotion might be for a Vulcan, until he arrived in Sickbay.
“What the hell happened to you?” Dr. McCoy bellowed as soon as Spock came into view. The doctor quickly came over and set a hand against Spock's right wing as if trying to prove the feathered appendages were not an illusion.
Spock was more than merely startled by the contact. His knees almost buckled under him at the intensity of the sensation, and he let out a grunt that was half moan as he winced away from Dr. McCoy's touch.
“Did that hurt?” Dr. McCoy asked worriedly.
“That is not precisely how I would describe the sensation,” Spock said in a strained voice.
Before Dr. McCoy could ask for clarification, Captain Kirk came bounding through the door.
“Good lord,” Captain Kirk cried out, eyes wide. “It's true. I thought Scotty was joking when he reported this.” Before Spock could ask him not to or Dr. McCoy could warn him, Captain Kirk stroked a hand down Spock's left wing.
Trapped between the two men, this time Spock swayed, gritting his teeth against the sounds the sensation sought to wring from him.
“Damn it, Jim, don't maul the man,” Dr. McCoy snapped.
“I didn't mean to hurt him,” Captain Kirk protested. But then he caught Spock's eyes and something he saw caused him to smirk. “And I don't think I did.”
“That does not mean the contact was welcome,” Spock said stiffly, stepping out from between the two men on shaky legs.
“Some might well appreciate an appendage like that,” Captain Kirk said, smirking still.
Dr. McCoy snorted. “You've got one, and you play with it plenty,” he snarked. “Commander, why don't you come over here and I'll run some tests.” He directed Spock over to a bed in a corner where no one could bump into him by accident.
Jim slunk out of Sickbay before Bones could throw him out. He'd clearly screwed up this time, but how was he supposed to know touching Spock's wings would do ... that? He'd just been curious, and maybe a bit worried. After all, it wasn't every day his First Officer suddenly grew wings. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Pausing at a comm panel in the hallway, Jim called Scotty. “Has anyone else come up from Sardina III?”
“No, Captain,” Scotty replied. “I've ordered 'em all ta stay put 'til we've finished at least a full diagnostic a the transporter system. The next person might end up with a beak.”
“That's an appalling thought,” Jim said. “Let me know when you finish that diagnostic.”
Jim signed off and continued on his way back to the Bridge. Whatever happened, Spock was lucky. It could have been worse. He was still alive, still functional. And yet ...
If it had been anyone else, if it had been Jim himself who ended up with wings, they'd be amused, excited. Especially wings that were so sensitive. He chuckled to himself. Sensitive was an understatement from Spock's reaction, or rather, the fact that Spock reacted at all. Bones would have to tie Jim down to get him to stop experimenting. It would be interesting to see how horny he could get himself just stroking his feathers. Was the reaction strong enough he could get himself off?
But what was Spock going to do with all that new play territory? Not much, most likely. Sure, Jim was pretty sure that Spock's relationship with Uhura was sexual as well as intellectual, but that didn't mean Spock was going to be at ease with all that excess sexual energy. In fact, he was likely to be one of the least comfortable of the whole ship's complement. It was probably too close to emotion for the half-Vulcan's peace of mind.
Jim sighed as he took his seat on the Bridge, a few hours early, but no one commented. As captain, he was responsible for the whole of his crew, but Spock was special. Jim had acknowledged that years ago, after he met a strange old Vulcan on Delta Vega. He wished he could help. Hell, he wished he could take Spock's place. Yes, partly because those wings would be fun, but mostly because he wanted to save his First Officer, his friend, from the difficulties and emotional turmoil this was sure to cause.
“I am functioning adequately,” Spock insisted yet again after a complete physical as well as every additional test the doctor could devise from the not inconsiderable medical equipment available on a Constitution-class starship. “Your tests have found no complications to my health due to the changes in my physiology so there is no reason for me to remain sequestered in Sickbay.”
“I've also found no explanation for why you suddenly have wings,” Dr. McCoy growled. “There could be other changes that have a delayed onset. You should stay here until we've fully identified your condition. Or at least until Engineering has some idea how this happened.”
“If I should notice any further changes to my condition, I would, of course, come to you immediately. In the mean time, I should return to my duties as these new appendages do not in any way inhibit me from performing them.”
Dr. McCoy huffed and sighed but gave in. Even with his veto powers as Chief Medical Officer, he had no reason to hold Spock. “Very well, but watch yourself carefully. I want to know about any changes. You'll stop in here for a checkup twice a day, before and after your shifts.” The words were clearly an order and not a suggestion.
“Of course, Doctor.” Spock escaped before the doctor could make any more demands, or any of the other Medical staff could intercept him as some of them looked quite interested in doing. He had less than an hour before he began his next duty shift on the, and Spock wanted a chance to privately explore the changes in his physiology before then.
He ignored the looks from the crewmen in the corridors with aplomb. Ignoring the occasional hand that reached out and brushed up against his new appendages took more effort, but he believed he had essentially succeeded in hiding the effect it had on him.
If his knees were a bit wobbly as he stepped into his quarters, well, no one else had to know.
Once in private, Spock moved immediately to the small mirror in his quarters. He had little used for the object on most days except to ensure he looked adequate before facing the crew, but today he appreciated its presence in his quarters. Finally he had a chance make his own observations regarding the changes to his physiology.
The wings extended from his back. His uniform tunic and undershirt had somehow been neatly slit or ripped around each joint with his back; changing his clothing would be difficult. The first wing joint rose above his head when the wings were folded back, and the primary feathers brushed the floor at his heels.
Stretching the wings out seemed awkward, his brain not naturally wired to control a third set of limbs, but he did manage, spreading them as far as was safe in the limited space of his cabin. A quick calculation indicated he did not have the necessary wingspan to lift someone of his dimensions and weight. He doubted as well that he had the appropriate musculature to even support a glide in a lighter gravity, though that might be possible to develop.
Bending, Spock was able to twist a section of his right wing around for closer observation. The feather barbs were white, but the shafts carried a greenish tint reminiscent of his blood color. The skin below them was thin, almost translucent over a complex network of muscles and veins, again tinted green with copper laden blood. Intrigued, Spock ran a hand along the feathers and gave in to the moan that had been building within him with every touch in the corridors.
Shocked anew by the intensity of the sensation, Spock's eyes rolled shut and his fingers tightened until the sensation shifted towards pain. With a gasp, he released the wing, drawing it back behind him, and leaned forward onto the dresser under the mirror. He was easily as aroused as he had ever been with Nyota and was quickly losing control of his physical reaction.
He had half an hour before his duty shift began, and it was tempting, so tempting, to take himself in hand and relieve the sexual tension building within him. He had become quite adept at doing so quickly since he had reached an unexpected human sexual maturity at seventeen years, three months, and six days of age.
Looking into the mirror as he considered the idea, something in him rebelled. He was Vulcan first and human second, an orientation he had been struggling to maintain for his entire life. He might have lacked the proper control when his sexual maturity arrived, and sometimes allowed his relationship with Nyota to be an alternative outlet, but today he had control. He would master his physical reactions and prove he was Vulcan, if only to himself.
He had half an hour, and he would spend it in meditation, firming up his control in a Vulcan manner. He would calm and center himself to retain his control in the hours to come.
He quickly lit a candle for a focus, but it took a few minutes to find a position where he could relax and keep his wings comfortable. It was a delicate balance, but he did succeed. If he fell into a meditative trance with a sigh of relief, well, no one was listening to notice.
Spock strode onto the Bridge exactly on time, relieved to have retained that much control over his life. He could not deny, however, that it was also a relief to get away from the brushing hands in the corridor. Even fresh out of meditation it was getting difficult to retain control over his reactions to those touches. This was a matter for concern.
Captain Kirk shot Spock a concerned look, which was a change from the variations of shock, surprise, and amusement in the eyes of every other crewman he had passed in the corridors and were now on the faces of the crew on the Bridge. Even Nyota looked far too intrigued for his comfort. The captain's reaction was an almost pleasant contrast. Spock nodded to his captain and ignored everyone else, retreating to his station where he would not have to see those eyes watching him.
The seat at his station was not as comfortable when sitting sideways, but the back impinged on his wings if he sat normally. It was, in fact, easier to stand and lean over his work station. Sitting caused his wings to rest partly on the ground unless he let them spread. Either was a distraction, the former due to the sensation of the sensitive appendages brushing against the deck and the latter because he became a traffic hazard to other crewmen. However, the others on the Bridge seemed willing to work around him with a minimum of discussion, which he appreciated.
The time on the Bridge might have actually gone smoothly for the entire duty shift if not for the actions of Yeoman Rand. She came in to have Captain Kirk sign some paperwork as she was wont to do several times every shift, every day. Unfortunately, she did not retreat immediately as she usually did, instead stepping up behind Spock and running one hand along the edge of his partly outstretched wing.
As Spock had not been paying attention to Yeoman Rand's movements, he was unprepared for the sensation of her fingers on his feathers. His moan echoed around the Bridge.
“Yeoman Rand!” Captain Kirk reacted far before Spock could collect himself to protest.
Unfortunately, in her surprise at the captain's yell, Yeoman Rand was not careful as she turned about, brushing bodily against Spock's wing as she rotated. This time Spock muffled the worse of his audible reaction but had to hunch over his console, both to keep himself on his feet and to hide the physical reaction he could no longer prevent.
“Captain?” Yeoman Rand said sheepishly as she stepped away from Spock, finally.
“You are aware that it is considered poor manners to touch a Vulcan without invitation?” Captain Kirk asked, radiating his disapproval.
“Yes ...” Yeoman Rand squeaked.
“Then why do you think it appropriate to touch Commander Spock without his permission just because a transporter malfunction has slapped some unusual appendages onto him?”
“I … I ...”
“A Vulcan is a touch-telepath with or without wings,” Captain Kirk snapped.
Captain Kirk glared at the young woman he usually flirted outrageously with, then glanced pointedly at Spock before returning his eyes to her.
Yeoman Rand turned to Spock and squeaked again, “I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have done that.”
“Then do not do it again,” Spock suggested. He looked at her, remaining as impassive as he could manage under the circumstances. Unfortunately, he knew he had not reigned in the flush that had filled his cheeks completely and he was still hunching over to hide his physical reaction.
“Perhaps you should remind your friends the proper courtesy Starfleet taught you all,” Captain Kirk suggested pointedly. “Dismissed.”
Yeoman Rand departed with a squeak and a panicked look, all but running from the Bridge. Spock caught Captain Kirk's eye, raising an eyebrow in question, but the captain just looked disgruntled and turned back to the main screen.
“Captain, orders coming in from Starfleet,” Uhura announced into the shuffle of a Bridge shift change.
“Let's hear it, Lieutenant,” Jim ordered.
The message was piped to the speaker in the arm of his chair. “Captain Kirk, the Delgasian society has finally set a date for the investiture of their new planetary leader,” said the familiar, if unwelcome tones of Admiral Komack. “They have requested the presence of the Enterprise at the ceremonies, specifically the heroes of the battle with Nero. You are ordered to be in the Delgasian system in ten days for the beginning ceremony and stay through the trade negotiations after ritual finishes on the sixth day. Komak out.”
Jim glared at the speaker. He'd been expecting orders like that to show up soon, but that didn't mean he appreciate their arrival just now. He glanced over at Spock, his large white wings a reminder that the transporters weren't safe to use and there was a landing party on the planet they orbited. Knowing Jim's luck, even with these new orders they would still be expected to provide complete reports on the planetary survey.
“Captain,” Spock said, breaking the silence that had fallen over the Bridge again. “At warp five, we are seven point two eight days from the Delgasian system.”
“How long will your teams need to finish the planetary survey if they hurry?” Jim asked.
“That depends on whether the transporters are functional,” Spock said. “However, if limited to shuttle transportation, I believe another forty-two point three hours will be enough time to collect data and samples for a complete report for Starfleet if the analysis is done on the journey to the Delgasian system.”
Jim nodded. That could work. He tapped the comm button on the arm of his chair, calling Transporter Room Three. “Mr. Scott?”
“Aye, Captain,” Scotty replied quickly, if gruffly.
“Scotty, what's the word with the transporter?” Jim asked.
“I have no idea wha' happened,” Scotty growled. “I've checked the transporter logs, but they dinna show any anomalies. Everyone transported down just fine, but Mr. Spock came back with wings. I canna even begin to give ye an explanation now.”
“Is it safe to transport the rest of the landing party up?” Jim asked.
“I dinna think so, Captain,” Scotty said. “I recommend usin' shuttle craft for all transportation 'til we sort this out. I also suggest we use full decontamination procedures until we identify if i' was somethin' down there tha' caused this.”
“Those do sound like logical precautions,” Spock interjected.
“All right, do it,” Jim ordered. “The orders just came in on the Delgasian investiture. We have to be on the move in less than three days. Keep that in mind while you work”
“Will do, Captain,” Scotty promised before closing the comm line.
“Mr. Spock, you'd better inform your science teams of the new timeline and limitations,” Jim said. Looking over at his first officer startled him yet again, those great big wings overshadowing the features that usually stood out to Jim.
“With your permission, Captain, I will head to the laboratories now and begin preparations for decontamination and storage of the specimens for delayed analysis.”
Spock visited Sickbay as ordered, only an hour after his shift on the Bridge ended. He did not do so by preference. There was still much to be done with the science teams. However, Spock knew better than to ignore one of the doctor's orders completely. He had observed the consequences Captain Kirk suffered many times.
“Do you intend to repeat every test you performed previously?” Spock asked. He was struggling with a surprising degree of irritation and his tone was faintly petulant. Unacceptable.
“The only way I can tell if there are any other side effects of your little accident is to check everything at regular intervals,” Dr. McCoy replied, quite logically. Spock was uncertain how that interpretation had escaped him. His lack of emotional control was fogging his logic in a most unpleasant manner.
Spock stiffed a sigh, and then a groan as Dr. McCoy brushed against a wing on his circuit with the tricorder.
“Huh. That got a hell of a hormone spike,” Dr. McCoy commented. There was an almost gleeful look in his eyes as he studied the readout before him.
“That is to be expected,” Spock replied tightly. “I am not yet used to the effects of such contact so I have not yet adjusted to regulating them.” It was a nice theory. Hopefully it would prove true, rather than finding out his control was so weak that he could no longer control his body.
“Explain,” Dr. McCoy demanded.
“Vulcans have an ability to manage their bodily systems that is much more exact that that of Humans,” Spock said, taking comfort in being able to simply state facts. “This allows us greater control over our emotions, our physical reactions, and our healing.”
“Like when you went into some kind of healing trance after being injured on Corenth II last year?” The doctor had a light in his eyes that Spock had come to recognize as a joy of learning. Despite their differences, their fondness for learning was something they shared.
“Correct,” Spock replied. “I am experienced in moderating my hormone levels and … the various factors that affect my arousal. These wings are a new factor that I have yet to learn to moderate.”
“Huh,” Dr. McCoy said, his lips quirking up in amusement. “So we finally found something else to ruffle that stolid exterior of yours. I have to say, I like this reaction better than mindless rage.”
Spock closed his eyes, feeling a sense of rising warmth that accompanied the memories of his attack on Captain Kirk during their first mission. The captain had been right to show Spock how emotionally compromised he had become. Spock was quite ashamed of his illogical actions that day and had been unable to fully eradicate that reaction in the years since.
“Welcome to the human race,” Dr. McCoy said jovially, slapping Spock on the shoulder, this time missing the wing. “Just accept there's more to you than that Vulcan exterior.”
“Unlikely,” Spock intoned, his voice flat even for his usual diction. “If you are done?”
“All right, but get some rest,” Dr. McCoy said. “Consider yourself on light duty while you adjust.” It seemed he recognized that he had pushed as far as was safe for tonight. Sometimes Spock wondered what his other self's relationship with his Dr. McCoy had been like. His own situation was quite irritating enough.
Spock left, deciding there was no point in arguing. Dr. McCoy did have a point, but he would be insufferable if Spock said as much. Spock strode quickly through the crowded corridors towards his quarters, deciding rest and meditation was the best course. He had no intention of going anywhere near a place as full as the recreation rooms and cafeterias at the present, and the Science laboratories had been more crowded than he appreciated though he had much to do. Tomorrow would be soon enough. His only relief was that the rumor of what the captain had said on the Bridge must have percolated through the crew as far fewer hands were reaching out to brush against his wings. The tension in his gut when he arrived in his rooms, however, did remind him that fewer was not none at all.
He was attempting again to meditate when the chime on his door rang. He stifled the human urge to sigh in frustration and touched the door release as he blew out the candle and carefully maneuvered to his feet without tangling himself in his new appendages. His emotions were becoming noticeably more volatile, which only added to his frustration with the whole situation.
Spock felt an odd twinge in his stomach when he heard Nyota's soft tones. “Lieutenant. How may I assist you?” he asked, then ordered the computer to decrease the temperature to a more comfortable level for her human anatomy.
She looked shyly at him as she stepped into his quarters and let the doors shut behind her. “Actually, I was wondering if I could help you. My mother was rather fond of handcrafting, and I learned to be a fair seamstress as a child. I thought you might appreciate some assistance modifying some shirts ... just to last you until they can fix what happened.”
Spock considered that this was an acceptable reason for her intrusion. “That would be of assistance. I had not yet decided how to deal with the clothing complications developing from my condition.” He hadn't really even thought about it yet. Odd.
“Well I observed the back of your uniform while we were on duty,” Nyota said, stepping closer. “I think two hemmed slits to the top of the wings and some kind of closures at the bottom, so you can slip it on over your head and then close the gap.”
“That does sound like a logical solution,” Spock agreed. He found it necessary to resist the urge to step away. Perhaps he was reacting to the constant touching of those who had come so close in the corridors.
“I could use the uniform you’re wearing now as a pattern,” Nyota suggested, stepping behind him. “I think we'll have to cut this one off you, though. The openings aren't large enough to fit around your wings anywhere but where they meet with your back.”
“Agreed. I have a knife on the table, if you would be willing to assist me.” It was nominally a ceremonial knife, one of the few to survive the destruction of Vulcan, but it was sharp, close, and Spock was finding himself irrationally eager to do something productive in regards to his new condition.
Nyota was quick to cut both shirts free, her hands never actually touching him, much to his relief. He had known there was nothing to be concerned about in relation to her. She stepped back as he removed the cloth, looking at him with a studious gaze. “They are very sensitive?” she said thoughtfully, her words part question and part statement.
“Perhaps it is the complex system of nerves necessary for their control that makes them so,” Spock said by way of an answer. He found he had no more desire to discuss the sensitivity of his wings with her than any other crew mate.
“How are you dealing with the crew's reaction? They are likely to continue to be curious beyond the bounds of proscribed behavior.”
Spock considered her words for a moment before replying. “I will survive,” he finally said, intentionally choosing a human style phrase. Survival was the only logical option.
“If I can ever help ...” She let the words trail off. Her voice was laden with innuendo and promise, but also a bit of concern. He appreciated the concern, at least from her, though he had a feeling it would get old shortly, to borrow a phrase from the captain. However, his appreciation was canceled out by his irritation that she would propose a liaison now. Spock was still determined to manage his own body in this and had no intention of allowing her to suggest other options.
“Right now, assisting me with procuring shirts that I can wear is more than adequate,” Spock assured her. He did appreciate her offer, and another day he might accept, but not tonight.
He reached out a hand to cup her cheek. He knew the action would reassure her that her proposal was not completely unwelcome. He had been slowly learning such subtle actions that would reassure her of his feelings without his having to express them in a manner completely counter to Vulcan logic. However, right now he found himself also curious about her emotional state and the contact allowed him to check. She was concerned, as he had suspected, but he did not like the level of curiosity she felt about his wings. His audible reaction to Yeoman Rand's touch on the Bridge had aroused her. He did not realize she had been so unsatisfied by his stoicism during their coupling.
The door chime gave Spock an excuse to drop his arm before his discomfort could become evident. “Come in,” he called.
Captain Kirk appeared in the doorway, his arms full of a tray of food. “If I'm interrupting, I can come back,” he said, smirking broadly in the manner Spock was coming to identify as teasing.
“Not at all, Captain,” Spock assured him blandly even as Nyota's cheeks flushed slightly.
“I thought you might not want to deal with the crowds in the cafeteria,” Captain Kirk said, holding up the tray. “Thought we might discuss a few things too, but if you two want this I can find my own supper.”
“No, Captain, that's all right. I was just leaving,” Nyota said, much to Spock's relief. “If I could have another one or two of your shirts, Commander, I'll see how quickly I can modify them.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Spock waved the captain in and walked into his bedroom where he retrieved two blue uniform shirts and two black thermal undershirts. Once he handed the shirts over, Nyota left quickly with only the shortest of polite goodbyes. Even so, by the time she was gone Captain Kirk had set up the contents of his tray on Spock's table. Spock was surprised to note all the dishes were vegetarian. The captain was not usually so courteous.
“I can go,” Captain Kirk offered again after the door shut behind Nyota.
“That is not necessary, Captain,” Spock assured him, though he was struggling on one level to ignore the fact that he was standing before his superior officer in less than full dress. He had to ignore it because presently he had no other shirt he could successfully wear. It was odd that it would bother him so much now as they had interacted in a state of incomplete dress on more than on occasion when the captain had not be careful about properly securing the door of the facilities they shared. Today, however, he was also ignoring the intensifying feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach. It was rather different from the twinge Nyota had elicited. However, he saw no reason to dwell on illogical sensations. He turned the chair at one end of the table sideways and sat. “You said there were matters you wished to discuss.”
Captain Kirk claimed the seat across from Spock with a nervous look in his eyes. “I mostly wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Was there some sign while I was on duty that I was not functioning adequately?” Spock asked, hiding his own concern under the Vulcan calm he had worked so hard to cultivate his whole life.
“No, not at all,” Captain Kirk said, waving his hand as though trying to physically wave away that concern. Spock resisted an unusual urge to pin the appendage in place. “You performed admirably, same level as always even with the added … distractions. I just ...”
Spock interrupted, believing he had ascertained his captain's point of concern. “You are worried about my emotional state.”
“Pretty much,” Captain Kirk admitted sheepishly. “I know you Vulcans don't like to admit to having them, but we both know that under adverse enough circumstances they can be a factor.”
Spock lost control enough to let his brow furrow, which did not bode well for a welcome answer to the question that followed. “Are you implying that you think me emotionally compromised by the current situation?”
“Not at all,” Captain Kirk said quickly. “Look, I'm sorry for touching you in Medical, and for what I said. And I'm sorry for the way the crew is acting. Anyone would have a hard enough time adjusting to suddenly having wings, but to have them be so sensitive, and everyone touching … I just want you to know that if there's any way I can help ...”
“I … appreciate your words, both now and earlier on the Bridge,” Spock said gravely, surprised by how much the words did mean to him. “However, I will adjust to this, for as long as it should prove to be necessary. I trust that Mr. Scott will find the problem soon enough.”
“I just hope he can fix it … fix you … when he does,” Captain Kirk muttered, looking down at his own hands clasped on the table.
“That is my hope as well,” Spock admitted. “Until then, the crew will likely behave better once the novelty wears off.” He hoped.
“I could talk to them, make some kind of announcement,” Captain Kirk offered.
“That is not necessary,” Spock said. “I am certain the trend will decrease soon.”
“All right, Spock.”
“Was there anything else you wanted?”
Captain Kirk shook his head. “No … No, I just wanted to check up on you. Bones says you're healthy as far as his scans can tell, and Scotty is working like mad to figure out what happened. The away team is bringing back samples of everything for Scotty and the science crew to look over.”
“Then I believe I will spend the time until my next duty cycle in meditation.”
Captain Kirk stood quickly. “Of course. Don't let me interrupt further.”
It was not until Captain Kirk had been gone five minutes, five minutes Spock spent staring at the closed doors, that Spock realized neither of them had eaten anything.
Well, he could always have something later. “Computer, set environmental to Vulcan standard plus two.” Right now, he just was not hungry. Candle lit, he settled in the middle of the floor, his wings spread for the right balance, and meditated.